


Taming a Wild Heart

by DeansDirtyLittleSecret



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Angst, Cowboy Dean Winchester, F/M, Fluff, Mild Language, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-11-27 12:07:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18194396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeansDirtyLittleSecret/pseuds/DeansDirtyLittleSecret
Summary: Forbidden Love. The rancher’s daughter and the ranch hand. If there’s one thing Dean can’t afford to lose, it’s his job as foreman at Singer Ranch. Except, he had broken the one hard and fast rule for anyone working at the ranch. Bobby Singer’s daughters were strictly off limits. Period. Once Bobby found out that Dean was not only dating,  but had fallen in love with, his eldest daughter, he was going to lose his job, along with everything, including the only woman he’d ever loved.





	1. Forbidden Love

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rewrite of a Marvel series I wrote. The song mentioned is Slow Hands by Niall Horan.

You’d wanted this for longer than you cared to admit. You’d be lying if you tried to say you’d come to this bar for any other reason than to get what you wanted. It would only be tonight, you could promise yourself that much.

He tasted like whiskey, the cheap kind, the good kind, the kind of whiskey you could only get at a bar, whiskey your father would never,  _ ever _ , have in his home. His kisses were wet, sloppy, perfect, and his hands were rough and calloused as they slowly drifted up your side.

“We should take this back to my place,” you murmured. You were on fire, every inch of your skin burning with need for him, want and desire woven into every fiber of your being.

“Your father - “ he mumbled, hesitating for only a moment, long enough for you to hear the doubt in his voice.

“- is gone,” you finished. “They went to see my sister at school. It would be just us. Come home with me.”

He groaned, his lips on your neck, sucking, biting, marking you, one hand on your waist, the other beneath your shirt, cupping your breast. Your back arched and you pushed into his hand, your own fingers slipping into the waistband of his Levi’s, his skin hot to the touch, tugging him closer.

This corner of the bar was dark, buried in shadows, the jukebox only a few feet away, the beat of the song thumping in your head, pounding through your blood, filling your head with all kinds of ideas. You’d been thinking about this - him - all night. Shit, you’d been thinking about this for months. You wanted to be alone with him, you wanted him in your bed, behind closed doors. Screw your father and what he thought was best, this was what you wanted.  _ He _ was what you wanted.

“I’m not leaving here without you,” you whispered in his ear, your fingers dancing over his arousal, another biting groan leaving him. “I wanna take my time with you, I want this to last all night. I just need you to come home with me.”

His answer was to throw some money on the table and take your hand, his grip tight as he dragged you from the bar to his car, an old, pristine 1967 Chevy Impala, parked in the corner of the dirt lot on the east side of the bar. He pressed you against the door, catching your lips in his, his hands moving over your body, igniting the fire deep within you. You could barely breathe when he released you.

“Your place?” he asked, pulling the door open for you.

“M-my place,” you nodded.

* * *

**_Six Months Later_ **

You watched your father and Dean from your seat on the veranda, your book propped on your lap, a glass of iced tea on the table in front of you. They were having a heated discussion; your father’s arms gesticulating wildly, his shouted words occasionally reaching your ears, while Dean stood with his arms crossed, his lips drawn together, the only outward sign that he was irritated. Dark glasses covered his eyes, though you were sure if you could see them, the emerald orbs would be flashing in anger. 

“Just take care of it, Winchester,” your father shouted, before spinning on the heel of his Italian made loafers and stalking across the manicured lawn toward the entrance near the kitchen.

“What’s dad so pissed about?” your half-sister, Jo, asked.

“Language,” you mumbled absentmindedly.

Jo made a face and tossed her phone to the table. “I’m over twenty-one, Y/N,” she groused. “I don’t have to watch my language.”

“You won’t think that if Daddy hears you,” you smirked.

“Bobby Singer can kiss my ass,” Jo sighed, dropping into the chair across from you.

“Uh oh, what did he do now?” you asked, your full attention on your sister.

“Told me I can’t see Jimmy anymore,” she shrugged. “He’s not good stock, Joanna Beth.” Her impersonation of your father was spot on. “And he somehow got mom on his side.” Jo’s mother, Ellen, was your stepmother. The two of you got along most days, though she tended to favor Jo. Which was to be expected.

“I wish he’d remember that we’re his daughters, not soldiers for him to command,” Jo continued. “Besides, he’s been out of the military for what, twenty years?”

“Since Grandpa died and left him this place,” you nodded. “Doesn’t change his attitude though. Once a military man, always a military man. Now he’s just a rich military man.” You sat up straighter, glancing at Dean walking toward the stables, his broad shoulders stiff, his gait sure and determined. “Daddy has certain...ideas about things and he’s stubborn. You know that.”

“Not as well as you do,” Jo said, giggling, one eyebrow raised.

“You’re not wrong,” you sighed. 

Jo picked up her phone and just a second later, a song, that _song_ started playing, the song that always, always reminded you of _him_. You closed your eyes and let the memories of that first night roll over you, the feel of his hands on your body, his fingertips moving slowly over every inch of your skin, his lips, those sinful, sinful lips taking you to unimagined heights. You could remember how badly you’d wanted him, how he’d made you feel things you’d never felt before, how perfectly the two of you had fit together, as if it was meant to be.

“Y/N? Y/N!” 

“S-sorry,” you mumbled. “Lost in my thoughts.”

Jo rolled her eyes. “What am I supposed to do about Daddy?”

“What makes you think I know how to deal with him?” you scoffed.

“I don’t know. Maybe because you’ve been around him longer?” she sighed.

“Doesn’t mean squat,” you laughed, rising to your feet. “He controls me just like he controls you.”

” _ Tries _ to control you!” Jo yelled after you.

You shook your head as you walked away. Your sister had no idea.

* * *

Dean stalked toward the stables, hellbent on getting as far away from Bobby Singer as he could. That man had no idea how to run a ranch, he never had. He couldn’t run it like a military base, even though that was what he had tried to do for years. Dean had heard the stories from previous ranch foreman, heard how difficult Singer was to deal with, but that hadn’t stopped him when the job became available. The pay was good, phenomenal really, better than what any other foreman in the valley received. It was clear to him now that there was a reason for that.

Once he was in the stable, he set to work feeding the horses, moving from stall to stall, letting himself get lost in his work, settling his mind. He was just coming out of the second to last stall when he heard his name. 

“Hey, Mr. Winchester, what was all that about with Mr. Singer?” Jack, one of the newest, and youngest, ranch hands, asked.

“He wants the corn and wheat fields harvested by the end of the week,” Dean replied.

“You’re joking, right?” Jack gasped. 

“Unfortunately, no,” Dean shook his head.

“That’s not possible,” Jack said. “What are we going to do?” 

“I don’t know,” Dean shrugged. “Call in everybody I can think of, I guess. Or say fuck it and quit.”

“I don’t think Mr. Singer will like that,” Jack laughed. “I’m going to go take that new mare for a ride. I’ll see you later..” He waved over his shoulder as he strolled away, the mare’s lead in his hand.

Dean grabbed the last bucket of feed, opened the gate to the last stall and stepped inside. 

“Hi,” she breathed, just inches away from him, making him jump.

“Christ, Y/N,” he growled, “you scared the shit out of me.” He set the bucket of oats in front of the chestnut mare in the stall, put his hands on her waist and dragged her backwards, out of sight.

“Sorry,” she grinned, pushing herself up on her toes, her hands on his waist, her lips barely brushing his.

“What are doing in here?” He tried to sound stern, but he failed. “I saw you on the porch a few minutes ago.”

“Wanted to see you,” she murmured.

“Your father was just down here.”

“And now he’s in the house, probably getting an earful from Jo about her boyfriend. He didn’t even see me come down.” The hands on his waist slid around him as she stepped closer, her body flush against his. “You worry too much about my father.”

“Have you met the man, Y/N?” Dean sighed, leaning his forehead against hers. “If he sees you -”

“He won’t,” she replied. “I’ve gotten really good at this.”

Dean chuckled, cupped her chin in his hand, tilted her head back, and pressed a kiss to her mouth. What he really wanted to do was throw her in the hay and take her, a plan she would have been one hundred percent on board with, but he held back by sheer force of will. She drove him crazy, made him crazy, made him throw all of his inhibitions out the window, including the one about staying away from the boss’s daughter.

“Stop that,” she laughed.

“Stop what?” he asked.

“Stop overthinking this,” she said, “stop overthinking us.” She wrapped a hand around the back of his neck and pulled him back to her lips, her tongue drifting over his, sliding into his mouth as she pushed into the kiss, her breasts pressed against his chest, her body warm, supple, soft to the touch. 

“Come to my room later,” she purred. “I’ll leave the doors unlocked.”

“Y/N,” he shook his head.

“Please?” she pleaded.

He couldn’t tell her no, he’d never been able to, so he nodded, grabbed the bucket of feed, and stepped out of the horse’s stall, hurrying down the long aisle to the tack room. He needed to catch his breath.

* * *

You’d been hiding in your room for hours, tired of listening to your father and Jo argue over, well, basically everything - her choice of schools, her choice of men, her choice of music, every choice she’d apparently ever made. When Jo had tried to drag you into the conversation, insinuating that she was somehow better than you and therefore deserved a different set of rules, you’d momentarily considered getting involved, until your stepmother, Ellen, had come down on Jo’s side. Before it escalated into all out war, you’d turned on your heel and left the room, refusing to get involved any further. 

You couldn’t listen to Jo bitch about you and your wasted life, not again. You were everything she didn’t want to be, her shining example of what not to do. You, the daughter who came home after college to help run the multimillion dollar a year ranch, sleeping in your childhood room, following Daddy’s rules.

But not all of his rules.

You finished tucking the last corner of the clean bed sheet in, grabbed the blankets and pillows from the chair, and tossed them back onto the bed. You crossed the room and locked your door, twisting the knob and tugging afterwards, just to make sure. You peeled off your jeans, kicking them aside so you could lie down, sighing as you sank into your bed’s inviting softness.

On the other side of the room, one of the double doors leading to the veranda opened and Dean slipped inside. He smiled at you as he crossed the room, his nimble fingers swiftly unbuttoning his long-sleeved shirt, leaving him in a plain white t-shirt and his low slung Levis. He kicked off his boots and then he was on you, pushing you backwards onto the bed, his hands sliding beneath your shirt, pushing it up and off.

No, you definitely didn’t follow all of Daddy’s rules.


	2. At the Cowboy's Mercy

You straddled the man sleeping in your bed, tugging the oversized t-shirt you were wearing - his, of course - up around your waist as you leaned over him and pressed a kiss to the center of his back, right between his shoulder blades. He stirred, groaning, and looked over his shoulder at you.

“Hey,” Dean smiled. “What time is it?”

“Five-thirty,” you murmured.

“Noo,” he moaned, burying his face in the pillow.

You laughed and pushed your way beneath his arm, forcing him to roll to his side, so you could snuggle up beside him. His heavy hand fell to your waist, his knee pushing between your legs as he pulled you close, tucking your head beneath his chin.

You sighed and closed your eyes, pressed your cheek to his chest, his heart thumping in your ear. You could have stayed there forever. 

“I better go,” he whispered.

Before you could protest, he was no longer in your bed, instead he was standing on the side of it, pulling on his jeans and his boots. He turned to you, a smirk on his face.

“I need my shirt,” he said.

You laughed, pushing yourself up so you could kneel in front of him, grabbed the hem of the t-shirt, and slowly pulled it over your head, holding it out to him with what you hoped was an innocent smile on your face.

Dean shook his head, his green eyes flashing, and snatched the t-shirt from your hands. He yanked it over his head, tugging it into place, then he grabbed you, lifting you off the bed, his hands warm against your naked skin, pulling your legs around his waist, his hands on your ass, his mouth slanted over yours, kissing you as if he had no intention of leaving.

“Don’t go,” you murmured, running your fingers through his hair and kissing his jaw.

“You know I have to,” he sighed. “If your father finds me in here, he’ll kill me.”

You rested your head on his shoulder, your arms tightening around his neck. He wasn’t lying. One of the first rules when working for the Singer Ranch was that the staff, the hired help, did not mingle socially with anyone in the Singer family. Bobby Singer took this rule so seriously that it was written into each employee’s contract - “social interaction with either of the Singer girls, Y/N and Joanna Beth aka Jo, is strictly forbidden.” If anyone violated the terms of that agreement, they would be fired. And getting fired from the Singer Ranch was a death sentence. Not only were they fired, but the former military man made sure their life was destroyed. He was a vindictive man.

Dean set you on your feet, kissed you one more time, then he was gone.

* * *

He hurried down the low hill leading to the side of the house, headed for the stables and his office. He would shower and change in there, use the spare set of clothes he kept in the bottom drawer of his desk. Clothes that were kept there for just such clandestine occasions. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d done it since he’d started seeing Y/N.

If someone had told him a little over six months ago that he would be dating, and seriously in love with, his boss’s daughter, he would have laughed in their face. But, after a drunken one night stand and the best sex he’d ever had, fast forward six months, and here he was, in a position he’d never imagined himself in. The Singer girls were strictly off-limits, always had been. He’d known that when he started working at the Singer Ranch when he was sixteen. Nothing had changed. Except for his feelings for a certain Singer daughter.

A half an hour later, Dean was at his desk, a cup of coffee in his hand, going over paperwork, attempting to find some way to harvest more than one hundred acres in three days. It was making his head hurt.

“I recognize that face,” a familiar voice laughed from the open office door. “You’re trying to figure something out and it’s kicking your ass.”

“Sam? What the hell are you doing here?” Dean laughed as he pushed himself out of his chair and hurried across the room..

They met in the middle, exchanging a handshake and a quick hug. Sam was his younger brother, fresh out of law school and, for some odd reason, working as the foreman for one of the Singer Ranch’s biggest rivals, MacLeod Farms. It drove Dean crazy that Sam wasn’t using his law degree but was instead living the life that both of his parents had strived to remove him from, right up until their deaths in a house fire three years ago. It made him want to punch is brother right in the face. Not that he could get Sam to discuss it; he avoided the subject like the plague.

“I’m here to take a look at that herd of cattle in your north pasture,” Sam said. “MacLeod’s thinking about buying a couple hundred head and I’m here to take a look at them.”

“I didn’t hear anything about that,” Dean mumbled, pulling his hat off and scratching his head. “I had no idea Bobby was looking to sell any cattle.”

“I think he and MacLeod are conspiring to make it happen,” Sam shook his head. “Nothing is finalized, though. Fergus sent me over with his son, Gavin. That idiot knows nothing about cattle. I suspect he’s just doing this to get close to Y/N, anyway. He’s always had a thing for her. And Bobby seems to be pushing that pairing.”

“What?” Dean’s head snapped up.

“Yeah,” Sam shrugged. “I overheard Gavin talking to his father about how Singer thought that he and Y/N would make an amazing couple and combining the two ranches would make their families a powerhouse in the state.”

“Does Y/N know this?” Dean asked.

“I doubt it,” Sam laughed. “From what I’ve heard, she’s pretty headstrong. I doubt she’d be very happy if she knew her father was trying to set her up with the likes of Gavin MacLeod. Anyway, thought I’d stop and say hello. It’s been a while. You know, you really need to quit being a stranger. Jess and I would love to see you more often. We’re family after all.” 

“I know,” Dean shrugged. “Working here keeps me busy, though. You know that.” 

“I do,” Sam nodded. “But, you’re my brother and I feel like we’re strangers. Which is bullshit. You should come by for dinner this week. Jess would love to see you.” 

“Alright, alright, I’ll see what I can do,” Dean replied.

“Look, I better go or Gavin will fuck something up. I’ll see you later.” He shook Dean’s hand again and disappeared out the door.

Dean leaned against his desk, the headache roaring between his ears. He shoved his hand in the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out the tiny box he’d been carrying around for the last three weeks, waiting for the right moment. He flipped it open and stared at the modest sapphire and diamond engagement ring inside. The right moment better come soon.

* * *

“Daddy?” you yelled. You closed the door quietly behind yourself and propped your sunglasses on the top of your head. You crossed the room to your desk situated right in front of the large glass window overlooking the stables and the fields behind it. Your computer was on, which irritated you; you distinctly remembered turning it before you left. Your father had been snooping. Again. You were going to have to install that password you’d been threatening to put on your computer after all.

“Daddy?” you shouted again.

“In my office” was his bellowed reply.

Your father’s office was at the back of the large guest house, in what had once been the master bedroom. After he’d taken over the ranch, Bobby Singer had the seldom-used building converted into an office space, wanting to keep the inner workings of the ranch separate from the main house. Two of the bedrooms and the main living area had been converted to offices while one bedroom had been turned into a storage room lined with filing cabinets.

You headed for your father’s office, rounding the corner and running directly into Gavin MacLeod. He caught you as you stumbled, one hand on your waist, the other gripping your upper arm. He smiled, his faces just inches from yours.

“Hey, Y/N, how are you?” The grin widened noticeably.

You sighed, disentangled yourself from Gavin’s grip, and took a step backwards. “Hi, Gavin,” you muttered. “What are you doing here?”

“Discussing business with your father,” he said. “Nothing you need to worry your pretty little head about.”

You rolled your eyes. You were pretty sure you knew more about the business than your father did. You definitely knew more than Gavin did about the inner workings of the ranch. And Dean was the one who really ran the Singer Ranch, while you took care of the books. Your father was a figurehead, nothing more. The fact that he was discussing business with Gavin MacLeod was laughable at best.

“What sort of business?” you asked, immediately suspicious.

“I’m thinking of selling the MacLeod’s a couple hundred head of cattle,” your father explained, stepping out of his office. “Gavin came by to look at them.” He clapped the younger man on the shoulder, his grin one you’d seen before. You knew where this was going.

“Gavin came out to look at them? Why didn’t they send Sam?” Dean’s brother, Sam, was MacLeod Farms’ foreman. “Or even Gordon?” As far as you were concerned, anybody was better Gavin.

“Why don’t you head out with Gavin to take a look at them?” Bobby suggested, that smirk that annoyed the crap out of you on his face.

Your father had that glint in his eye, the one that told you he was scheming, plotting, most likely, to set you up with Gavin. He’d had that same look when he’d convinced you to date Nick, when he’d gotten you to agree to come to work for the ranch, and when he’d encouraged you to move back home, that look that said he had a something up his sleeve, something that you probably weren’t going to like.

“I have work to do -” you argued.

“It can wait,” your father said. “I need you to go with Gavin, look at those cattle. Maybe run it by Winchester, he knows the cattle better than either of us.”

You bit back the “no shit” on your lips, shot a glare at your father, and followed Gavin from the office. You dropped your sunglasses in place, pushed past the younger MacLeod, and stalked toward the stables. Gavin was hot on your heels, chattering in your ear, the scent of tobacco floating from the cigarette he’d lit as soon as you’d left the house. You barely heard anything he said; you were too busy fuming over your father’s interference in your life. He knew you didn’t need to “look at the cattle,” that was Dean’s responsibility, not yours. He was up to something.

“What do you say we grab some lunch later?” Gavin said, his soft fingers wrapping around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. 

You took a step away from him, biting back the bitchy remark close to bursting from your mouth. You hated this. Gavin MacLeod had always had a crush on you, ever since high school, when you’d both ended up attending the very expensive private school on the outskirts of town. He was nice enough back then, for a spoiled rich kid who wanted for nothing and whose father doted on him, but he wasn’t your type. Unfortunately, he didn’t seem to understand that. He’d followed you around like a lost puppy for two years, repeatedly asking you out, not understanding that you didn’t reciprocate his feelings. As the years passed, he got more and more persistent as well as becoming a bigger asshole. Your father had never understood why you wouldn’t date Gavin, why you couldn’t just _get over yourself and date the boy from the good family_.

You hadn’t seen him much after high school, both of you off to different colleges. Every now and then Gavin would pop up, ask you out, you’d turn him down, life would resume. Hopefully, this was going to be another one of those times.

“Y/N? Lunch?” He prodded.

“I don’t think so, Gavin,” you sighed.

Gavin shook his head, chuckling under his breath. “Still playing hard to get?”

“I was never playing hard to get,” you snapped. “I’m not interested in dating you. I never have been.”

“That’s not what your father says,” he said.

You carded your fingers through your hair, trying to quell the urge to pull it in frustration. “My father doesn’t know what I want. My father knows what  _ he _ wants, which is not the same thing. Daddy doesn’t get to decide who I date, who I love. As much as he’d like to.”

“We’ll see,” Gavin shrugged. He spun on his heel and continued making his way toward the stables, flicking his still lit cigarette butt into the dirt. 

You clenched your fists and let out an irritated huff. Out of the corner of your eye you saw Dean coming out of the stables, walking with Sam. Gavin turned their direction, calling Sam’s name. You stepped up the pace, ground the butt out in the dirt as you passed it, and arrived just a few seconds after the younger MacLeod.

“Thanks, Sam,” Dean was saying, shaking his brother’s hand. “You don’t know how much I appreciate your help. It’ll still be tight, but we might make it.” He nodded your direction as you approached. “Ms. Singer, what brings you out this early? Looking to ride your favorite stallion?” He winked, making you blush. God damn Dean anyway.

“I-I guess I’m, uh, going to -” you stammered.

Gavin put his hand in the middle of your back, a leering grin on his face. “She’s going with me to look at the cattle we might buy. Then, we might grab some lunch.” His arm slid around your waist, pulling you closer.

Dean nodded, an odd look falling over his face. “I need to get back to work,” he said. “Ms. Singer, Mr. MacLeod, have a good afternoon. Sam, I’ll talk to you later.”

“Dean -” you stepped toward, him, Gavin’s tight grip on your waist stopping you.

But Dean didn’t stop, he just disappeared back into the stables.

* * *

“Another one when you get a minute, Jodes,” Dean said, tapping his empty glass on the bar.

“You sure about that, Dean?” Jody Mills, the bar owner, raised one eyebrow. “You’ve had a lot tonight.”

“I’m fine,” he grumbled in reply. “Just keep ‘em coming.”

Jody sighed heavily, snatched up his glass and set the burger and fries down in front of him. “Listen, kid, if you need someone to talk to -”

“I know, Jodes,” Dean said. “Thanks.”

Jody gave him a tight smile, squeezed his hand, and sauntered down the length of the bar to help the frazzled young couple who had just come through the door.

Dean had been at Jody’s bar, Mills Crossing, since he’d left the ranch just after six. He hadn’t seen Y/N since she’d arrived with Gavin MacLeod and the little shit had pawed at her right in front of him. Rather than talking to her, like he should have, Dean had gotten in his truck and driven straight to the bar, as if the thing was on autopilot. That had been a couple of hours ago and he was drunk off his ass, angry, tired, and hungry. Not a good combination by any stretch of the imagination.

“You need a ride home?” Sam dropped into the barstool beside him, his elbows resting on the bar, his chin in his hands.

“Probably shouldn’t drive,” Dean shrugged. “Guess I could use a ride home. It’s either you or I call one those Uber things.”

They were quiet for few minutes, silently drinking their beers.

“How long have you been seeing her?” his brother asked.

Dean smiled warily and shook his head. “Six months, give or take a few days. That obvious, huh?”

“Probably only to me,” Sam chuckled. “When Gavin put his arm around Y/N’s waist, you looked about the way you did when Donna Hanscum showed up with Doug What’s-His-Name to the junior prom. Only that time, I remember you fighting for what you wanted.”

“Yeah, and ending up in jail for my troubles,” Dean scoffed. “Remember how pissed Dad was? Took my car away for what, a month? God, I thought I was gonna die without my wheels.”

“My point is, I’ve never seen you give up so quick -”

“I’m not giving up, Sammy,” Dean interrupted. “It’s just...complicated.”

“You’re equating your relationship to Facebook status now?” Sam smiled.

Dean shook his head. “Mr. Singer doesn’t know about us. Y/N hasn’t told him, yet. You know the rules as well as I do, Sam. No fraternizing with the Singer girls. Period. Well, I’m doing more than fraternizing.” He dug the small velvet box out of his pocket and dropped it to the table.

Sam let out a low whistle, his eyes widening noticeably at the sight of the box. “You’re gonna propose?”

“Yeah,” Dean mumbled. “Yeah, I am. Was. I don’t know. Never seems like the right time, you know?”

“If you wait for the right time -”

“- it’s never going to be the right time,” Dean finished. “God, I hate it when you and Dad are right.”

“Do you love her?” Sam murmured.

“I do,” he whispered, nodding.

“That’s all that matters,” Sam said. “The rest will fall into place. Now, how about that ride home?”

“Thanks, Sam,” he muttered.

“Any time, bro,” Sam grinned. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”


	3. Long, Hard Ride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean does his best to finish the harvest like Bobby demanded.

You were out on the southernmost part of the property for the better part of two hours, discussing the cattle Gavin and his father were interested in purchasing. You weren’t in complete agreement with the terms, and you told Gavin as much, a concept he seemed to have a hard time grasping. He argued with you all the way back to the main house, doing his best to convince you that it was in the best interest of everyone involved for you to sell almost the entirety of your herd to them.

“We could lose thousands and thousands of dollars, Gavin,” you said. “I just don’t see how this is even a viable option for us. I need to discuss this with my father.”

Sam pulled to a stop in the drive in front of the house, your door opening and your feet hitting the pavement before he’d even put the truck in park. Gavin jumped out after you and followed you up the stairs to the front door, where you stopped. 

“What are you doing, Gavin?”

“I thought we could discuss this, over lunch,” he replied, blowing smoke your direction. His chain smoking habit was getting on your nerves. 

“I don’t think so,” you shook your head. “We’ve discussed all we need to discuss. I’m going to talk to my father, try to make sense of this nonsense, then I’ll get back to you. Have a good day.” You opened the door and stepped inside.

You stalked through the house and out the back door, hurrying down the short path to the guest house. Your father wasn’t inside, not in his office, or answering his cell phone when you tried to call him. You sat at your computer, working your way through the numbers, trying to figure out your father’s logic, why he would even consider selling so many cattle for such a low price.  

An hour later, you shoved yourself away from your desk, your chair rolling several feet across the hardwood floor. Nothing was making sense, the numbers wouldn’t crunch, and you’d come to the conclusion that your father had lost his mind. You needed some air, so you left the confines of your office and hurried across the wide expanse of lawn to the stables.

One of your favorite things about the being out here was how quiet it was, the only sounds the gentle neighing of the horses, the quiet rustle of them moving in their stalls. You stopped outside Wild Blue’s stall, leaning on the door, waiting. It only took a second for him to notice you, a soft whinny leaving him as he put his head over the stall, nudging your hand.

“Hey, Blue,” you whispered, scratching beneath his chin. “How ya doing, buddy?”

The horse whinnied, stretching his head, urging you to continue rubbing his chin. You hummed under your breath and rested your head against his.

“Where’s Dean, pal? I could really use his advice.”

“Sorry, Ms. Singer, he’s not here.”

You jumped, your heart jackhammering in your chest. You rested your forehead against Blue’s broad face for a second before turning to the man - boy - standing beside you.

“Sorry,” the young man grinned. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I’m Jack.”

“Hey, Jack,” you replied. “You must be the new guy Dean mentioned a couple weeks ago.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”

You shook his extended hand. “So, Dean’s not here?”

“No, he left early. Can I help you with anything?”

“No, but thank you,” you smiled. “I’ll catch him tomorrow.”

Jack tipped his hat. “You have a nice night, ma’am. If you’ll excuse me -“

“Of course,” you nodded. “Thanks again.”

Jack disappeared into the dark night outside the stable. You spent a few more minutes with Blue before making your way back to the house. You skipped dinner with the family, climbing the back stairs to avoid them, choosing instead to go to your room and open your computer, hoping you could figure out what your father was up to before you confronted him.

* * *

You were up with the sun, dressed and on your way to the stables before anyone else in the house was even awake. Dean’s truck was parked in its usual spot beside the barn. You picked up the pace, glancing over your shoulder before slipping inside and striding down the aisle between the stalls, heading directly for Dean’s office.

You were almost there when an impatient huff stopped you in your tracks. Wild Blue was at the door of his stall, his big, brown eyes on you, silently begging you to stop and scratch his chin. You couldn’t resist the horse you had loved since you were a girl, so you stopped at his stall, your fingers wrapped in his mane, your forehead resting on the white star on his forehead.

“I”m sorry, boy,” you sighed. “I know I don’t come visit much.”

The familiar sound of bootheels crossing the floor filled your ears. You didn’t even have to turn your head to know who it was.

“He misses you,” Dean murmured.

“I know,” you sighed. “I need to come down more often.” You cleared your throat and ran your fingers through your hair. “I, uh, I did come down last night, but you weren’t here.”

“No, I left early,” he said. “How was your lunch date with MacLeod?”

Even though you were pretty sure he was trying to hide it, you could hear the jealousy in Dean’s voice. You wished he understood that he had nothing to worry about, no need to be jealous, because your heart belonged to one man only. Of course, you’d never said the words, never let him know that it was him that you loved. That underlying fear of your father and what he would do to Dean was always there, always creeping around the back of your mind, dictating every step you took.

“I didn’t go to lunch,” you said, stepping away from Wild Blue to put your arms around him, your head on his chest. You inhaled, Dean’s familiar scent filling your nose, suddenly making you heady with desire.

“Yeah?” Dean murmured, his hands resting lightly on your waist.

“Yeah,” you nodded, smiling up at him. You plucked the hat from his head and ran your fingers through his hair, scratching at the shorts hairs on the back of his neck as you pulled him down to meet your lips. 

That was all it took to ignite the spark, a simple kiss. Dean’s arms locked around your waist and he was dragging you backwards into his office, slamming the door shut, drawing a few startled neighs from the horses in their stalls. He pushed you against the door, impatient, greedy, his mouth slanted over yours, devouring you, his thigh between your legs, pressing against your warm core, his name a curse on your lips.

Dean was the spark that ignited your fire, turning you into a desperate, needy, ball of fiery desire. The minute he touched you, it set you off, a woman with a singular need, a singular thought. You wanted him.

You fumbled with his belt, pulling his pants open, Dean groaning as your hand brushed his half-hard cock. He reached around you and locked the door, before picking you up and carrying you across the room to his desk, sitting you on the edge. He tugged at your shirt, his hands sliding beneath it to cup your breasts in his hands, his thumbs tracing your nipples through your thin lace bra. You moaned, your back arching into his hands, your head falling back as his lips drifted along the line of your throat. You pushed a hand between your bodies, past the waistband of his underwear, taking hold of his length, stroking him gently. His hips thrust in time with your movements as he impatiently pulled at your clothes, your shirt and bra effortlessly removed and tossed aside. He stepped away from you, his emerald green eyes flashing black with lust, his eyes never leaving yours as he pulled your boots off and dropped them to the floor. He worked you out of your jeans, both of you panting with lust by the time you were free of the tight denim. 

Dean pushed open your thighs, stepping between them, his hand between your legs, his fingers teasing you, opening you. You worked his jeans and underwear down past his ass, guiding him, hissing as he entered you, the burn of the stretch the perfect balance of pleasure and pain. You wrapped your arms around his waist, your hands on his ass, urging him to move.

It was all hands, lips, you and Dean, perfectly connected in the most intimate of ways, his body flush with yours, his mouth on yours, kissing you senseless, swallowing your moans as you climaxed, the orgasm exploding out of you, consuming you, a seemingly never ending moment in time that you didn’t want to end.

Unfortunately, it did, Dean’s own orgasm coming shortly after yours, his hips stuttering, his body tensing, blunt fingers digging into your hips as he came. When it was over, he rested his head on your shoulder, breathing raggedly.

The knock on the door startled you both, your hand hitting a box of paperclips, knocking them to the floor.

“Winchester? You in there?” Another sharp knock.

“Shit,” Dean swore under his breath, pushing himself away from you and yanking his pants up.

You jumped off the desk and scrambled to grab your clothes, then you ran for the bathroom, shutting the door just a few seconds before Dean opened the door to his office.

“Mr. Singer,” you heard Dean say, “what can I do for you?”

* * *

Dean parked beside the stables, grabbed his coffee, and climbed from his truck. He missed his Impala. Parking her in the small garage beside his even smaller house was annoying, but he couldn’t exactly haul hay and oats or drive through fields in his classic car. That’s what his twenty year old Ford was for, the hard work. He scrubbed a hand over his face and hurried inside. He was exhausted and being up before the sun wasn’t helping. Yesterday had been a bitch of a day, a rollercoaster of a day. After Singer had almost caught him and Y/N, he and his boss had argued, about the cattle he senselessly wanted to sell, and once again, they’d argued about harvesting the more than one hundred acres of wheat and corn in what was now less than two days. Dean was insistent that it wasn’t going to happen, but Singer wouldn’t hear it, brushing off his explanations as nothing more than excuses. Dean had finally walked away, before he said something he regretted.

He’d spent the evening trying to fix the tractor that was down, one he hadn’t had time to fix during daylight hours. He’d stayed until almost ten, but he managed to get it running, though he hadn’t done as thorough of a job as he would have liked. They’d be lucky if it lasted through the harvest. 

Fortunately, Sam had offered to send some of his men to help harvest the hundred acres, but even with the extra help, Dean didn’t think it was going to happen. Which could mean his job.

Dean was out in the fields as soon as the sun peeked over the horizon, along with as many ranch staff as he could pull in on such short notice, as well as Sam and the ranch hands he’d offered up to help. The only good thing about having so much to do in a small amount of time was that it made the time fly by. Although, the ever-rising sun made the temperature spike. Its angry rays beat down on the men, exhausting them much sooner than had the weather been a good twenty degrees cooler. Maybe if Singer had waited a week or two, like Dean wanted, it might have been cooler, if only a few degrees. At this point, anything would be better than the stifling heat they were currently working under.  

Sweat was rolling down the back of Dean’s neck, along his spine, and settling into the top of his jeans, staining the shirt he was wearing. He dropped to the ground beside the tractor, stood tall and wiped a hand over his face, groaning as the muscles in his back, shoulders, and legs screamed in protest. He might have been in good shape, but there was a limit for everyone, and he had just about reached his. 

Gavin was coming his way, one of his ever present cigarettes between his smirking lips. “Bit of a steamer today, isn’t it?”

Dean rolled his eyes, barely managing to hide them behind the rag he had dug out of his back pocket. “Sure is,” he panted. “It’d probably go a lot quicker if it were all hands on deck.” It was a pointed jab at Gavin, seeing as how he hadn’t raised anything but a cigarette to his mouth over the course of the day. Dean still wasn’t quite sure why he was there. Sam hadn’t mentioned him coming and the look of irritation that had crossed his face when he’d pulled up told Dean that Sam didn’t want him there anymore than he did.

“What’s that supposed to mean, Winchester?” Gavin snarled.

“Nothing,” he lied. He was too tired to argue with the man that Y/N’s father was hell bent on setting her up with. 

“No,” Gavin argued, going so far as to stab a finger in Dean’s chest. “You’ve had a problem with me from the start, and I know it has everything to do with a certain Singer daughter. Oh boy, wait until Bobby finds out.” 

Dean cut a glare at Gavin. “Don’t push me, MacLeod,” he warned, hands balling into fists at his side, his anger fueled by heat exhaustion and dehydration. 

“Or what? You gonna hit me?” Gavin laughed dangerously low. “Come on, then. What’s dear old daddy gonna do when he finds out that you attacked me, the man he thinks his daughter should really be with?” As if in preparation for the fight to come, Gavin flicked his still lit cigarette over Dean’s shoulder.

Dean followed the cigarette as it arched through the air, embers of red and orange spinning off of it, a shout of “what are you doing” caught in his throat. It bounced on the hard dirt, heading straight toward the tractor he had been working on the previous day. That was when time seemed to stop. 

While Gavin started laughing, obviously thinking Dean was turning chicken, Dean spun on his heel and raced toward the discarded cigarette as it rolled straight into a pool of gasoline pooled beneath the tractor. The gasoline caught flame, and it only took a few seconds for it to spread, the sudden breeze giving it life. 

The explosion was deafening, like the crack of thunder as it struck a tree. Dean’s ears exploded, an immediate ringing filling his head, bright, hot, orange light blinding him, an unbelievable, intense heat surrounding him, burning him. He felt the world tilt on its axis as hell rained down around him.


	4. Branded as Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything in your life is about to change.

You were half asleep at your desk when your world literally blew apart. The explosion rocked the guest house, the windows rattling. You shot out of your desk, feet pounding on the hardwood floors, the door left standing open as you flew out of it, sprinting around the side of the house. You slid to a stop, frozen in place, watching the thick black smoke rising into the sky, flames popping and crackling, so hot you could feel it a hundred yards away.

“Oh my God,” you moaned, fear turning your blood to ice as you raced across the lawn to the stables.

There was a pile of burning metal in the middle of the gravel drive, the source of the intense heat. Horses were neighing, kicking at their stall doors as the flames licked at the stable. There were people everywhere, running everywhere, the air rich with panic, people yelling, screaming, crying. You saw your father running toward the fire, heard his shouted orders, soot covering his face and arms. You didn’t see Dean.

You took off at a run, screaming Dean’s name, trying - and failing - to look everywhere at once. You circled the burning tractor, at least you suspected it was the tractor, the old one that was constantly breaking down. Lying on the far side of the tractor, on his back, an arm thrown over his face, was a man covered in soot, not breathing, at least not that you could see, if he was, it was so shallow you couldn’t see his chest rising and falling. You fell to your knees beside him, gently moving his arm away from his face. It wasn’t Dean, it was Jack, his eyes rolling back in his head, deep coughs leaving him, blood pouring from his ears. Part of you sagged in relief, but the fear was still there. You called for help, holding Jack’s head in your lap. Sam appeared at your side a few seconds later, pulling Jack from your arms. 

“Sam, where is Dean?” you shouted.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “Last time I saw him he was running toward the tractor.”

You pushed yourself to your feet, turning in circles, desperately looking for Dean. You pushed past the people gathering with hoses and buckets, trying to douse the flames before they reached the stable and the horses. 

That was when you saw him, leaning against the barn, head down, blood leaking from his ear, cuts and scrapes covering every inch of visible skin, black singed holes all over his jeans and shirt, his face looking as if he’d been pummeled. You took off at a run, screaming his name, launching yourself into his arms, the tears now pouring down your face. He winced, stumbling back a few steps, but he didn’t let go of you, his arms around you, crushing you, holding you so tight you couldn’t breathe. You didn’t care. You weren’t ever leaving his arms again.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he murmured. “I’m okay. I’m sorry.” He kissed your cheek, your chin, your closed eyelids, finally landing on your lips.

Leave it to Dean to apologize for nearly dying. God, he was the most selfless, amazing man you had ever met. You returned the kiss, desperate to remind yourself that he was alive, that he was there, holding you, and he was in one piece.

“Jesus Christ,” you sobbed. “I thought you were dead, Dean. I-I c-couldn’t find you, and then, I saw Jack laying there -”

“Jack, what about Jack?” he growled.

“He’s hurt, Dean,” you replied. “I-I don’t know how bad it is, but he didn’t look good.”

“Shit, where is he?” he mumbled, setting you on your feet. He took a couple of steps forward before he fell against the wall, sliding down to rest on his haunches, his brow furrowed, eyes slightly glazed, lips tight, shoulders hunched.

“You’re not okay,” you said, crouching down beside him.

“I’m not okay,” he mumbled just before he slumped over, unconscious.

* * *

Sleep was elusive, not that you could have slept, not when Dean was lying unconscious in a hospital bed, every wire imaginable attached to him. You were sustaining yourself on watered down hospital coffee, soda, and disgusting sandwiches from the vending machine down the hall. If it wasn’t for Sam, you probably wouldn’t be eating anything. He would stay with Dean while you paid the vending machines a visit, the five minutes you were gone from the room almost too much to handle.

Dean was in and out of consciousness and you had no intention of being gone from the room when he was awake, even if it was only for a few minutes. The concussion he’d suffered was severe, along with his burst eardrum, and the multiple lacerations. He’d been thrown more than ten feet when the tractor exploded, landing in a pile of hay bales, blacking out for several minutes. He’d only been on his feet a few seconds when you’d found him.

Jack was in a room down the hall, but unlike Dean, he had not regained consciousness. His mother, Kelly, had not left his side. The two of you had crossed paths several times, meeting at the vending machines, and your heart had nearly broken for her. The doctors couldn’t tell her anything, they weren’t even sure Jack would wake up and if he did, what condition he would be in.

The day after Dean was admitted, he was finally fully awake. You were sitting beside his bed, a book in your hands, music playing quietly from your phone, not really reading, mostly staring at the pages, sleeping with your eyes open, when you heard the barely audible whisper of your name. You leapt of the chair so quickly that your book hit the floor.

“Hi,” he murmured.

“Hi.” You fought back tears of relief, pushing down your emotions, doing your best to keep yourself calm. You took his face in your hands and pressed a kiss to his lips, brushing a thumb over the bruise on the side of his face.

“Don’t cry.” He shifted, grabbed your hand, and squeezed. “I’m alive.”

You nodded and wiped the tears from your cheeks. You pulled the chair over as close to the bed as possible, sat down with your feet tucked beneath you and Dean’s hand in yours. You spent the next hour answering all of Dean’s questions - how were the horses, how much damage had the buildings sustained, who else had been hurt, and what seemed like a million more. He explained what happened, Gavin’s cigarette carelessly tossed aside, igniting the gasoline pooled beneath the tractor. He quizzed you until he could barely keep his eyes open. He finally fell asleep, turned on his side, facing you, your hand clutched in his.

* * *

Sam convinced you to go home for a few hours, sleep, take a shower, and maybe get some real food in your body. Since Dean was fully awake and functioning, you’d agreed. You were barely able to keep your eyes open on the long drive to the ranch, grateful when you eventually pulled into the long driveway, the burnt remnants of the tractor still off to one side, waiting for the insurance adjuster to visit the ranch. You parked the car and staggered up the stairs through the front door, leaning against it once it clicked closed behind you.

Jo met you at the door, a plate of food and a beer in her hands. She hugged you with one arm, tighter than she’d ever hugged you before, and urged you out of the foyer and into the living room just a few feet from the main entrance.

“You should have told me,” she scolded, urging you to sit down before she handed you the food and drink.

“I know,” you sighed. “But I didn’t tell anybody.”

“Because of Daddy?” Jo asked.

You nodded, your stomach lurching at the thought of your father. You were going to have to face him, sooner rather than later, something you were not looking forward to, dreading it in fact. You forced yourself to eat the sandwich and take a few sips of the cold beer, even though you weren’t feeling very hungry.

Jo cleared her throat when the last of your food was gone. “He’s been waiting for you,” your sister said. “I’m pretty sure he would have gone to the hospital if Mom and I hadn’t stopped him. That was a fight I do not care to relive.”

You shook your head. “You guys didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes we did,” Ellen interrupted, stepping into the room through one of the veranda doors. “Dean didn’t need your father screaming at you in the hospital. And neither did you.”

“Joanna Beth!” your father roared. “Is that your sister?”

“Kind of like that,” she sighed, pushing a hand through her long, blonde hair.

You handed the half full bottle of beer to your sister, pushed your hair off of your face, and rose to your feet. “It’s me, Daddy!” you shouted. You pointed at the door on the opposite side of the room that led to a back hallway and mouthed ‘go.’ For once, Jo didn’t argue, just got up and walked away, shaking her head and mumbling under her breath. To your surprise, Ellen crossed the room and gave you a quick hug before following her daughter out of the room.

Your father strode through the door a minute later, fists clenched, brow furrowed, looking as if he was about to spit hellfire. You took a deep breath and waited for the yelling to start.

“Do you have something to tell me?” He came to a stop in front of you, arms crossed, his face unreadable.

“Probably not anything you haven’t already figured out,” you shrugged.

“Winchester?” he asked.

“He’s okay,” you said. “Tired, in pain, but also worried about the ranch, of course.”

“Probably more worried that I’ll fire his ass,” Singer scoffed. “Which is exactly what I’m going to do.”

“Why, Daddy?” You were barely containing your anger, the need to lash out at your father nearly overwhelming you. “Because he broke your archaic rule about dating a Singer daughter?”

“Oh, that’s just one of the reasons,” he smirked. “He almost cost us everything. We were lucky to get the fire out before it reached the stables. A tractor exploded, a tractor that he’d been working on -”

“It wasn’t his fault,” you snapped. “It was Gavin’s.”

“I doubt that,” your father said. “Dean’s just trying to save his job. This is over, Y/N. You will stop seeing him. Period.”

He was almost out of the room before you spoke up. “I love him, Daddy.”

He stopped in his tracks, his back ramrod straight. “What did you say?”

“I love him,” you repeated. “And I will not stop seeing him.”

Singer spun around, his eyes shooting daggers. “You do not love him. You can’t.”

“Oh, I do,” you nodded. “And I’m done following your stupid rules.”

Your father dragged in a deep breath, his fists clenched at his sides. “This is not open for discussion, young lady. Break it off, today, and we’ll forget you ever said anything.”

“I’ll leave,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest.

“You won’t. If you walk out that door, I will cut you off, no job, no money, no place to live. Think on that for a while. You and your cowboy boyfriend won’t get very far on nothing. I’ll make sure of it.” He scratched a hand against the side of his face. “I’m done talking about this. You will do as I say.”

You waited until you heard the slam of the back door leading out to the guest house before moving, sprinting down the hall to your room. You threw bags and clothes on the bed. It wouldn’t take you long to pack. Just a few minutes. You’d be gone before the general could figure out what you were doing.

You were done taking orders from your father.


	5. Taming Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Dean try to move on after the fire at the ranch and Dean’s injuries.

“How’s Jack doing?” you asked as soon as Dean hung up the phone.

“Angry, hurt, pissed, and out for blood,” Dean said. “As one would expect after losing your ability to walk in an accident that never should have happened, an accident that could have been prevented.” He scrubbed a hand over his face and sat beside you on the couch, his arm sliding around your shoulder.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” you replied, a little too quickly.

“Liar,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. “It’s been two weeks since you talked to your father. Do you want to call him?”

“No,” you snapped.

“Hey, easy,” Dean murmured. “I was only asking.”

You sighed, turning in his arms so you could lay your head on his chest. Dean kissed the top of your head, his hand rubbing circles on your back. It had been more than three weeks since the explosion at the ranch, but the aftereffects were a burden that would be carried for a long time. Dean had recovered, though he sometimes suffered from debilitating migraines due to the severity of the concussion he’d suffered. Jack was confined to a wheelchair, his back broken, the doctors unsure if he would walk again, not to mention the multiple surgeries to repair his lacerated liver, as well as some memory loss. There had been several other ranch hands injured in the explosion and one horse had been lost. And you, well you’d walked away from your family, from your entire life. Not that you regretted it for one minute.

“What time are you meeting with the insurance inspector?” you asked.

“Noon,” he replied.

“I’m coming with you,” you said. 

“You don’t have to,” he shook his head. “I can go on my own.”

“I’m not letting you face my father alone,” you replied. “You and me, together, right?”

“Right,” he grinned, taking your hand in his, his thumb and forefinger twisting the diamond and sapphire ring on your left hand. “Are you sure that’s what you want, Y/N? A broke, jobless cowboy who can’t give you the life you’re used to?”

You turned in his arms, staring up into his sparkling green eyes, the depth of your feelings for him nearly overwhelming you. You couldn’t have been more surprised when he’d proposed, slipping the ring on your finger early one morning after a long night of love making.

“I don’t care about any of that, Dean,” you murmured. “I only care about you and the life we can build together. All the money in the world can’t make me as happy as you make me.” You kissed the underside of his jaw, your hand slipping beneath the blue work shirt, your fingers dancing over his tight muscles.

Dean growled low in the back of his throat, his hands under your arms, dragging you up his body. He caught your lips in his, kissing you with a fervor, as if it had been weeks, months since he’d touched you, instead of hours. In one quick move, he had you on your back, his thigh between your legs, pressed against the apex of your thighs, heat instantly flooding you.

“I need you out of these clothes,” he demanded, pushing your shirt up your chest, his lips trailing after it, kissing your exposed skin before taking your breast in his mouth, suckling it through the thin lace bra covering you.

You moaned, grabbed the hem of your shirt, and ripped it over your head. Your bra was next, tossed somewhere over your shoulder. You fell back onto the couch, arching your back, gasping as Dean pulled your breast into his mouth, kneading the other gently, his fingers plucking lightly at the nipple.

He released you long enough for you to wiggle out of your jeans, kicking them to the floor, then he was back between your legs, his fingers twisting in your underwear, pulling them down a little bit. He slid to his knees beside the couch and leaned over you, his tongue dancing along your hips, across your stomach, dipping into your belly button, then back down to the apex of your thighs, mouthing at your still covered pussy, making you squirm.

“Dean, stop teasing,” you gasped.

Your underwear hit the floor seconds later, his head was between your legs and he was greedily licking you, quiet grunts of pleasure coming from him. He wrapped his lips around your clit, sucking it into his mouth as he pushed two fingers inside of you, moving them in a come hither motion that had you clutching at the back of his head, your legs falling open, and obscene sounds coming from your mouth. Dean slid his hand beneath you, lifting you until his mouth was completely covering you, his tongue, his lips, and his fingers moving together in unimaginable ways. Fire pooled in the depths of your stomach, heat flickering through every nerve ending, until you felt like you were shattering into pieces, the orgasm rocketing through you. 

You moaned his name as you came, fingers digging into the cushions of the couch, Dean pushing you right up to the edge, over and over, wringing every last drop of pleasure from you until you were lying on the couch, spent.

Dean crawled up your body, pulling his clothes off as he moved, stopping every couple of inches to kiss you, finally stopping at your lips, the taste of you still on his tongue. He rolled you to your side, pressing you against the back of the couch, pulled your leg over his hip, and slowly entered you, pressing in deep with one hard thrust, his hips pumping, his lips moving over your shoulders, your neck, your jaw. You wrapped your arms around him, your nails digging into his shoulders, fresh screams of ecstasy falling from your lips. He tangled his fingers in your hair, tipping your head back, kissing you even as he pounded into you, deeper and harder with every thrust until you were both coming.

Dean released you with a deep groan, one hand over his eyes, a smile on his face.

“You okay?” you giggled.

“Yeah,” he chuckled. “I’m good. Really, really good.” He kissed the tip of your nose. “Definitely getting used to having you here all the time.”

“Yeah?” you said. “Well, that’s good because you’re stuck with me now.”

“Good,” he whispered, pulling you back into his arms, “I want to be stuck with you forever.”

* * *

“Mr. Winchester, thanks for meeting with me,” Donatello Redfield said, shaking Dean’s hand and then Y/N’s. He was the man assigned by the insurance company to investigate the fire and this was the second time they’d met. The first time had been while Dean was still in the hospital, three days after the fire, dealing with the aftermath of his injuries, his concussion, and finding out that Y/N had walked away from her entire life for him. This time he was sitting in the man’s office, his hat in his hand, staring at a group of photographs hanging on the wall behind his desk, Y/N in a chair beside him.

Redfield took a seat, shuffled some papers around, and cleared his throat. “I thought Mr. Singer was going to be here, but it looks like he’s not going to make it.” He cleared his throat again. “Talk to me about Gavin MacLeod.”

Dean sat up straighter, surprised that MacLeod’s name had come up. When he’d tried to talk about Gavin and his cigarette the first time around, Redfield had kept bringing the conversation back around to him and the fact that he’d been fixing the tractor the night before it exploded, his questions not so subtly hinting that he believed Dean to be responsible.

“MacLeod?” Dean asked.

“Yes, Gavin MacLeod,” Redfield said. “You mentioned he may have been involved.”

“I told you last time, Mr. Redfield, MacLeod threw a lit cigarette, which landed in a puddle of gasoline under the tractor that was being repaired. That’s what caused the explosion and the fire.” He shifted in his seat. “Why are you asking?”

“I’ve talked to a few other people that were there the day of the explosion and every one of them indicated that Mr. MacLeod was on site, not working, but on site. They also mentioned that he’s a chain smoker, so it’s possible that the story you told me -”

“It wasn’t a story,” Dean snapped. “It was the truth.”

“Yes, Mr. Winchester, so you’ve said,” Redfield said. “Which is what I’m trying to get to, the truth. Tell me again what happened.”

Dean went through it again, every second, from the minute he stepped off the tractor to waking up in the hospital. He explained, for what felt like the millionth time, how the tractor that was being repaired was parked next to the stables, how he knew it was leaking gasoline, which was why he hadn’t taken it out in the fields. He told Redfield about the argument with Gavin, the cigarette, one of many, carelessly thrown away, how he’d tried to stop it, even though he knew he couldn’t, the explosion, the pain, his fear, all of it. He was sweating by the time he finished, his hat nearly crushed due to the constant twisting and turning it was enduring in his hands.

Redfield was nodding, scribbling something on the papers on his desk. “Thank you, Mr. Winchester, I really appreciate your help.” He pushed himself to his feet, repeating the handshakes from earlier. “I’ll be in touch.”

Dean took Y/N’s hand, leading her out the door. The were almost out of the building when they heard a loud voice calling her name and noticed Gavin striding toward them.

“Y/N!” he yelled. “Long time, no see.” He stopped in front of them, an irritating smirk on his face.

“That was the intention,” Y/N smiled. “What are you doing here, Gavin?”

“That Redfield guy wants to talk to me,” he shrugged. “Probably needs my help getting Dean here fired for setting the ranch on fire.” A nasty chuckle left him.

“Fuck you, Gavin,” Dean muttered.

“When are you going to stop this childish game, Y/N? When are you going to realize this guy can’t give you a fraction of what I can?” Gavin said.

Y/N rolled her eyes, but she didn’t respond right away, just stepped closer to Dean, all the answer Gavin needed. Dean’s arm slipped around her waist. She held her hand up, the ring on her finger flashing in the afternoon light streaming through the windows.

“He gives me everything I need,” she grinned.

Gavin’s face fell, his eyes dropping into an angry squint. He opened his mouth to say god-knew-what, but just then Redfield called his name from his open door. Gavin pushed past them, stalking down the hallway and through the door.

“Let’s go,” Dean said. “I need a drink.”

* * *

The two of you ended up at Mills Crossing, the bar you and Dean frequented the most, spending time there almost every weekend when you’d been sneaking around behind your father’s back. You knew your father would never step foot in a place like that, it was too blue collar for him. That’s where you ended up  after the two of you left Redfield’s office, after the confrontation with Gavin.

“He’s going to tell your father,” Dean said.

“I do not care,” you replied. “Let him tell Daddy. He should know his oldest daughter is getting married.”

Dean chuckled and shook his head. “You’re right, he should. Though I don’t think he’ll be happy with your choice of husbands.”

You leaned into his side, put your hand on his cheek and kissed him soundly on the lips. “Again, I do not care. I love you, cowboy. Come hell or high water.”

“I love you, too,” Dean whispered.

“Well, isn’t this a lovely picture?” the all too familiar voice echoed through the bar.

Your father was standing just inside the bar door, his face red with anger. He pushed his way through the lunch crowd, roughly shoving people out of his way, until he came to a stop in front of you and Dean.

“You’re marrying him?” your father shouted.

The bar had gone dead silent, everyone uncomfortable with the family drama suddenly playing out in front of them. Everyone did their best to look anywhere but your direction.

You started to rise to your feet, but Dean put a hand on your arm, shook his head, and stood up. He rose to his full height, his fists clenched at his sides. He stepped between you and your father. 

“Yes, Mr. Singer, she is marrying me,” Dean said. “For some reason I’ll never understand, she loves me enough to want to marry me.”

“You’ll get nothing from me,” Bobby growled, looking between you and Dean. “Not a dime.”

“When are you going to realize I don’t want it,” you murmured. “I don’t want your money and everything that goes with it. I don’t want anything from you. I’d rather be destitute than take a dime from you. All I need is Dean.” You reached up, your fingers intertwining with his, your engagement ring clearly on display.

“You...You’re  _ my _ daughter -” Bobby stammered.

“Not anymore,” you sighed. “I’m not your daughter anymore.” You were tired, tired of all of it. You wanted to be left alone to live your life. “Just, leave me alone, Daddy. Leave us alone.”

Your father opened his mouth to say something, but Dean put a hand on his chest. “You heard her, sir. Leave us alone.”

Dejected, your father turned and left the bar without another word. A smattering of applause broke out, bringing a smile to your face. Your father was probably one of the most hated men in the valley and you and Dean had just stood up to him, something not many people had done, at least not in your lifetime. It felt good to be one of the first.

Dean sat down, his hand on your back, rubbing it gently. You leaned against him, needing him, tears silently rolling down your cheeks. He was your world now.

* * *

“It will be small, just us, Sam, Jess, the Klines, my sister, maybe a few other friends, but that’s it,” you explained. 

“You’re okay with small?” Dean grinned. “You don’t want some huge fairy tale wedding?”

“Um, no,” you giggled, kissing his cheek. “This will be perfect.”

Dean’s ringing phone interrupted your wedding discussion; you watched him as he stepped outside to take it, his face suddenly serious, contemplative. You knew he was worried, worried that he didn’t have a job, worried how the two of you would survive with no income, worried about giving you everything you wanted and needed. No amount of reassurance from you was enough. It seemed as if every door was being slammed in his face, over and over again.

He stepped back inside a few minutes later and scooped his keys off the kitchen table. “Come on, we have to go,” he said.

“Where?” you asked as you grabbed one of his old sweatshirts and tugged it over your head.

“To see Fergus MacLeod,” Dean replied. “He wants to talk to me. To us.”

“Why does MacLeod want to see us?” you inquired. “And why are we going? It’s probably just more of the same bullshit. Poor innocent Gavin is being persecuted, leave him alone. Blah, blah, blah.”

“I don’t think that’s it at all,” Dean shook his head. “At least that’s not what he said. I think we should see what he wants.”

“Okay,” you shrugged, though you still didn’t think it was such a great idea. Fergus MacLeod was unpredictable, prone to just about anything. He came from old money, he’d bought the ranch on a whim one day when he’d been in the state visiting a friend from college. He’d divorced his wife, married a woman half his age, then divorced her, all in an eight month time span; you never knew what the man was going to do.

The drive to the MacLeod farm was a short one, quiet, both you and Dean lost in your own thoughts. He held your hand as the two of you walked up the steps to the front door and rang the doorbell. Thirty seconds later the door opened.

A petite redhead opened the door, a bright smile on her face. “Hello, you must be Dean Winchester and the infamous Singer daughter.” She had a lilting, Scottish accent. “You’re here to see Fergus, are you not?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dean murmured, tipping his hat.

“I’m Rowena, Fergus’s mother,” the redhead explained. “Right this way.”

You and Dean followed her through the foyer and into a mahogany paneled office to the left of the front door. She sank into an overstuffed chair beside the desk.

Fergus MacLeod rose to his feet, coming out from behind the desk, his hand extended. He was a handsome man, black hair graying at the temples, strong jaw, a smile that could win any woman over. He welcomed you both with a hearty hello, shaking first your hand, then Dean’s, his grip strong, reassuring.

“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing for both of you to sit on a green leather couch against the wall.

The Klines, Jack and his mother, Kelly, were there as well, Jack sitting in a wheelchair, while Kelly hovered over him. You hugged both of them, whispering your hellos.

It took you a second to notice Gavin sitting in the corner of the room, a scowl on his face. You had just turned to ask Fergus why he had asked you there when your father walked through the door, followed by Donatello Redfield. Dean squeezed your hand, and dragged you to the couch, pulling you down beside him, his arm around your waist, holding you in place, even though you were vibrating with anger.

“Alright,” Fergus MacLeod said, clapping his hands together, “I really appreciate everyone being here. First of all, I’m really sorry for all the trouble y’all have experienced recently. I feel like some of this might be my fault, at least in part, because my offspring appears to be the responsible party.” He shot a glare Gavin’s direction. “Mr. Redfield.” He nodded at the insurance adjuster.

Redfield stepped forward, clearing his throat and pulling at the edge of his collar. “It’s been determined that the explosion at the Singer Ranch was caused by a discarded cigarette igniting a puddle of gasoline beneath one of the ranch’s tractors. It appears that cigarette belonged to Gavin.”

It looked like Gavin might be thinking of protesting, but his father cut him off with another look. “Bobby, we’ll be paying for whatever repairs are needed above and beyond what the insurance takes care of and Jack, all of your hospital bills are going to be taken care of, as well as anything else you might need. Same with you, Dean.”

Gavin grunted from the corner, his eyes rolling back in his head.

“Did you have a comment, Gavin?” his father raised his voice. “Because we have discussed this, repeatedly. You almost got people killed because of your reckless, stupid behavior. And Jack is unable to walk because of you. All because you were acting like a spoiled brat trying to get the girl.”

“You’re giving away my inheritance!” Gavin shouted.

“You’re lucky I’m not cutting you off completely,” Fergus snapped. “Maybe this will wake your ass up. I’m done making excuses for you. People almost died. I can’t stand by and let this behavior continue. I am done. And this conversation is over, do you understand?” 

Gavin looked like he was trying to bite his tongue in half, but he didn’t make another sound, just stared at the ground, a petulant pout on his face.

“And Dean, I understand you are currently unemployed?” Fergus said.

Your father’s head shot up when he heard that, a scowl on his face.

“Yes, sir,” Dean nodded.

“I’d like to hire you, then,” Fergus replied. “I understand you’re one of the best ranch foreman in the state. I could use a man like you. What do you say?”

“What about my brother?” Dean asked. “He’s your ranch foreman. I don’t want to take his job.”

“Well, according to my sources, your brother has a law degree. Why he’s working as a ranch hand I’ll never know, but what I do know is MacLeod Farms needs a good lawyer. Sam has already agreed to fill that position for me.” He dropped into the chair behind his desk, hands folded on top of it. “I just a bought a large tract of land north of the property and we’ve got some expanding to take care of, cattle, maybe plant a few more crops. I need someone I can count on and from what everyone has told me, that someone is you. So, what do you say?”

“I say, yes,” Dean smiled, rising to his feet so he could shake MacLeod’s hand. “Hell, yes.”

Your father let out an irritated breath, threw open the door, and left. A few seconds later, you heard the MacLeod’s front door slam closed. Of course your father couldn’t be happy for you and Dean; his plan had probably been to make sure Dean stayed unemployed so you’d come crying back to him. You hated thinking your father was that vindictive, but if the last few weeks had taught you anything, it was that your father wanted to control everyone and everything around him, including his children.

Your thoughts were interrupted by Fergus calling an end to the meeting, Gavin stomping from the room, his boot heels clicking on the hardwood floors, and Redfield saying his goodbyes. Everything had happened so fast you felt like your head was spinning. You clung to Dean’s arm as he talked to MacLeod, the two of them discussing business. You could tell by the questions Dean was asking how excited he was to be able to go back to work.

“Thank you, Mr. MacLeod,” Dean said. “You don’t understand what this means to me. To us.”

“I think I do, son,” Fergus chuckled, winking at you. “I’m happy to help.” He shook Dean’s hand and yours, then he walked you to the door.

Dean waited until the two of you were in his truck before he let out a loud whoop and pulled you into his arms. You laughed, your arms around his neck, peppering his face with kisses.

“Looks like your fiance just got a job,” he chuckled.

“Good,” you said. “It’s hard to take care of a wife and baby with no job.”

“What?” Dean’s hands dropped to his side, his green eyes wide with shock.

You took his hand and placed it flat on your stomach, a smile on your face. “Baby,” you repeated.

The next whoop was even louder than the first had been. Dean crushed you to his chest, kissing you breathless. He was laughing, tears in his eyes when he finally released you. He rested his forehead against yours.

“I love you,” you whispered.

“I love you, too,” he replied. “Always and forever.”


End file.
